Thanksgiving During Impeachment Hearings

photo by Victoria Pickering / flickr

These Impeachment hearings give me hope. Hope, yes. Not that we will nail President Trump for many things. Not that Democrats show how smart they are. Not even that some Republican Congressmen show how ugly they might be. Not even that all the commentators are having a field day.

No—the thing that gives me hope during this strange confusing time is that we have learned this week a message we should not forget. There paraded before us a whole cadre of people. Most of us had never heard their names or seen their faces. Yet—these witnesses walked into that room in Washington, sat down and faced a scary line of dignitaries and sat close to a microphone. I do believe they told the truth as they understood it.

My proudness was not in the question: Did Mr. Trump do all these things he is accused of. No. Not at all. I found myself grateful that behind the curtain of our government, in places in Washington and all over the world we have Secretaries and Ambassadors and professional government operatives and even custodians who are real people who go to work every day and try their best to keep this country strong.

They lighten my despair about the country I dearly love. They tell me that even though this time in our history may be dark—there are hundred and thousands I guess whose names we will never know. Yet—they keep working, some under dangerous conditions for us all. 

Let us this Thanksgiving lift up a praise not only for the things or people around our table—but all those others that have made sure through the years that the ship of state can weather even these stormy days. 

We have heard the old adage many times lately about Ben Franklin. When she emerged from Constitution Hall he was recognized by a woman who asked of him, “What kind of government are you giving us?” And he said, “A republic, Madam, if you can keep it.”

Our history, like our flag, has seen some hard days through the years. But the people who have stood and spoken in these hearings in Washington have reminded me all over again that behind the scenes in places all over our land are people still determined too keep this place a republic after all. And so as I bow my head this Thanksgiving I remember America and I am proud.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Where Would Thanksgiving be Without a Plate?

Plate. The word reminds me of a child’s plate. My plate. It is sterling silver. In the center of the plate Mickey Mouse rides a horse. On one side of the dish these words are inscribed: My Mickey Mouse Spoon Goes Here. Opposite that side are the words: My Mickey Fork Goes Here. This plate is 84 years old. My mother and father received this plate as a present when I was born. There may have been other presents but this plate holds a bundle of memories. Maybe for her then. Certainly for me now.

My parents were married in 1922. Like so many other folks they found they could not make a living on the farm. So they became part of a migration from South Alabama to textile mills in Georgia and other places. They were promised life would be better. My mother and father brought their meagre possessions and lived in a tiny apartment with another couple in a one bed room duplex owned by the mill. They found most of the promises made were kept. They could both get jobs in the mill. They had lodging within walking distance of work. They had indoor plumbing. They had electric lights. All utilities were provided. And so they worked long twelve-hour shifts six days a week. During the war—seven days every week. One day they got their own mill house over looking the mill. Train tracks ran in front of our four room house.

Everyone was having babies—but not my folks. They kept trying but for thirteen years they were

childless. My mother especially wanted children. Finally after thirteen long years their first child came along. They named me Roger after Will Rogers who had died a month before. Why Roger? My mother said: “He makes me laugh.”

Someone probably an official in the mill gave my parents this sterling silver Mickey Mouse plate. My mother loved that plate. It represented so much. Laughter, a healthy child, joy and answered prayers. And for a poor hard-working couple with little of the world’s goods, especially in the depression years of 1935 laughter filled their little four-room house. Four years later my brother was born.

Like most of us my journey has been winding and circuitous. There have been dark days and wondering what I would ever do. But this plate—the only sterling silver in our home—still after all these years reminds me that I was a blessed child. Out of their poverty they gave me a richness that money cannot buy.In the rush of many things I forget that joy and that laughter many days. But when I Look at this plate—I remember how proud my folks were when I came into the world. 

My mother and father worked in that mill all their adult lives. They sacrificed  enormously to give me and my brother what they never had. They never finished high school. They never owned a car. But their two children always had everything they needed. 

I was the first one in my family to go to college. And the September morning I left for school my mother came home from work to make sure I had everything, My ride pulled up in front of our house. I hauled my footlocker out to his car. I was too young to know how hard that morning was for my mother. She stood on the porch and did not come down to the car. She didn’t want me to see her tears. She knew what I then did not know. Things would never be as they were. I was moving out slowly in to a larger world that my parents had ever seen. But that morning she let me go. She did not hold me back. 

And for the next four years of school every week I received a crumpled up fifteen dollars from her in my mail. And about once as month there would be a huge homemade cake in the mail. I’ve had a lot on my plate through the years. College and Seminary and a wife and kids and church after church until here I am at 84.

But maybe I have not had as much on the plate through the years as that little tiny Sterling silver Mickey Mouse plate. It is piled high with love and acceptance and forgivenesses and joy and sacrifice. 

It is good and healthy and healing, too to hold that plate in my hands after all these years. She loved that plate. But she loved me—what more could anyone ask from a plate?

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

All Saints...More than We Realize

photo by Leo Chimaera/ flickr

 The preacher asked his confirmation class, “Do you all know who a saint is?” And one little boy raised his hand. “The Preacher said, ”What is a saint.” And the little boy said, “A saint is someone who lets the light shine through them.” And I think the boy was right. A saint is somebody who helped take the blinders off your eyes, who helped you see even in the dark. And when things were tough—they made you believe despite all the crazy things around you. They let the light shine through.

Looking over my shoulder at my twisting journey--I don’t think I could have made it without those who took their little lights—sometimes more than tiny and let them shine. For a long time I don’t think I would have considered my parents as saints —most of us don’t. Yet looking back if they had not been there and diapered me and hugged me and whispered that it was gonna be all right and keeping me safe I don’t know what I would have done. Or where I might be.

My, my at every juncture there has been somebody or a whole lot of somebodies that lighted my way simply by being there. Most of them had no idea what indelible influence they had on me and many others. 

Under the glass on my desk are some of those. My Mama her last Christmas. Dear Don’s friendship help carry me through. Liz—she helped so many of us. Faye who left her tiny little house on a side road—took the WMU’s money and finished college and was a missionary for I don’t know how many years. I have two pictures of my wife on my desk. One photo that summer we spent in England—beautiful with her wind-blown hair. Another is only a silhouette. We were in Scotland and she sat at this pub drinking coffee. Nobody loves coffee more than her. But it must be right. I cherish that picture. There’s Nancy, dear Nancy that became my second Mama at Clemson. A tiny picture of a drawing we used in a building fund campaign in Birmingham. Its reads F…A…I…T…H and underneath the words:  "Faith under construction.” They took me in, bruised and battered and tolerated my brokenness and cheered me on. Not just people but almost a whole church—they lifted me and my wife up and carried us along. There's smiling Judy. She opened up her house every Monday night and served those that came. Many were gay. I don't know how many gurys with AIDS that stayed at her house toward the end because they had no other place to go. A have a tiny picture of my two children—little and red-headed. There’s my daughter grinning wildly at a Clemson game with me…and my son and his partner. 

I wish I could call all their names—the ones along the way that made sure the darkness was not the last word. But there are too many, many candles that shine in my constellation. Funny all those sleepless nights I spent because of some irate member or some mean-spirited phone call. Yet—I don’t remember their names but oh, I do remember many faces whose genuine honesty, charity and fidelity through thick and thin helped me enormously. 

Come Sunday when people move to the front of our Sanctuary and call out names of some saint that has blessed their lives—I don’t think I will come to the mike. There are too many to name. But sitting there I will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for all those whose little lights that really did shine…shine…shine.

“For All the Saints” is probably my favorite hymn. I’ve got a lot. But that fourth stanza gets me every time:

                                             “And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, 

                                              steals on the ear the distant triumph song, 

                                              and hearts are  brave again, and arms are strong,

                                              Alleluia! Alleluia!”

Yes…YES…YES!

photo by Georg / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Dealing with Death...Sorta

photo by christina ritz / flickr

Years ago I remember the day someone knocked on our door at home. My father opened it. A man stood on the other side. “I have come to see you because I thought you would like a funeral policy. I can come in right now and sign you up for a policy so that after you are gone your family won’t have to deal with all of this…” The door slammed. My father turned and stalked away. He did not want to talk about dying and funeral arrangements. He shoved it back into he corner and turned to something else.

I can understand now what I did not know then. Wayne Oates, Pastoral counselor used to call this finitude anxiety. This was a fancy title for people whose blood pressure goes up when they think of their own deaths. Most days, I think most of us would like to do what my father did that day years ago. We would like to slam the door on this death talk and forget it. 

Some of us who have lost someone say that they can’t wait to leave here and be united with their loved ones. Some, weary of suffering wish it would all end. Others in desperation end it all for many reasons. 

Yet none of us can really slam that hard door. It won’t go away because one of these days sooner or later we will have to walk through what the Psalmist called:  “the valley of the shadows.” Often it isn’t our death that we fear was much as the loss of a loved one. A mate, a child—a friend. It was unthinkable to think that one day they are here and the next their chair is empty and the loss is incalculable. When Mark Twain lost his little daughter he said it was like the burning down of your house. It would years and years to deal with reckon with all you lost. 

Last week my wife and I sat down at the funeral home and talked about funeral planning. It is much worse than any trip to the dentist. To sit around a table with someone you love deeply and begin to think about their death—your death really is a frightening thing. The director gently led us through the process. What kind of service?Where would it be? Casket—what kind. Visitation? What about the obituary? 

Outside the leaves were turning. The colors were spectacular. And the wind blew quietly. It was a beautiful day filled with life and beauty and wonder. I remember someone saying: “in the kingdom of God it is always October.” Who knows? I hope so—this is my favorite month.

But around that table we were forced to think of all the practicalities of what happens when we are not here. We listened to the man reeling out the possibilities. We finally took a deep breath, looked at each other and decided to choose cremation and as simple as the arrangements could be.

We left there mostly in silence. October was all around us. And life was everywhere we looked. College kids jogged down the road. The grocery store lot was full of cars. The radio played softly. And my flowers are still blooming. And there are hummingbirds and fat bumble bees and even some butterflies. And I know now what I did not know when my father slammed that door years ago. Who wants to stare death for ourselves and for those we love?

Once Arthur Godfrey, TV star of another day was in a plane one night as it passed over New York City. Down below the lights of the city were spectacular. It looked like Christmas. And Arthur Godfrey turned to a friend and said, “You know it makes me so damn mad. That one day all that will still be there and I won’t be around to enjoy it.”

I could end these words about life and how we ought to squeeze every last drop we have while we are here. And I will try to do that. And I hope you will too. Yet like Arthur Godfrey I understand how he felt that darkened night in that plane looking down on the glittering lights. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Birthday Musings

When you turn 84--what? 84. That's right. 8...4. Hmm. What do you say? You look back 
all the way.  To that Tuesday morning when I came into the world . Looking around I saw my Mama and Papa proud, after years of trying for a baby. And it was me. Lying there in that four-toom house across from the mill--with the train tracks in front of the house. I never did learn which side of the tracks we were on. Dirt poor. But not even knowing it--maybe that one one of the many gifts my parents gave to me. 

Out of their poverty they held and diapered me and did what they could. In my early years some days I wished I had other parents, another life. But one day I wisely woke up to know that other parents and another life was just some myth. I got all I needed and more. Later a brother whom we lost months ago. My parents also gave me a church.  And staring down from over the pulpit was the picture of the kneeling Jesus. He stayed with me all these years. Wherever I went and whatever I did--Jesus knelt in the garden and loved me and cared for me on good days and especially on the bad days--many self-inflicted. And all those Sunday school teachers and scout leaders and camp counselors and visiting preachers. They left their fingerprints all over my life. 

And there were friends. Like my parents, I think I just took my friends for granted. Not 

knowing that they would grace my life from then until now. Edward and Ronald--both dead. And teachers that opened the door to a bigger world that I did not even know was out there. Miss Beggs...first grade teacher I can see her to this very day. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was the first of so many. 

And the tiny world in that tiny house things kept getting bigger. There was a President named Roosevelt. And soldiers from Fort Benning. And Hitler, too over there somewhere. I had no idea how much damage he would do to so many. And even today the hate he taught is still with us at the margins. But there was

black Nancy our maid that taught me that folks that didn't look like us were just as important as we were. I remember Doug the adult shoe-shine man who stood at the corner scary and taught me even then that maybe

he had a heart and feelings and needs. And there was Tempie up the street that started working in the mill when she must have been eleven. And so they poured into my life a concern for the underdog whoever they were. And even now I look back at all the injustice I have seen and all the unfairness in the lives of so many. And I haven't done much to help or change this picture but I have tried every step of the way. Everybody counts.

College stretched me. And the friends I made and the teachers I had kept shaping me. And back home there was a Mama that would send me fifteen crumpled up dollars every week so that I could stay

in school. I learned about books and ideas and what was happening in the fifties in Montgomery would change the world and me, too.


There was Seminary and more books. But most important a girl. Beautiful and talented that slowly began to love me and one day marry me. How long ago? 58 years. And I have been blessed in ways I cannot even begin to describe. But simply 
t

this: she loved me and stood by me and believed in me especially on those days when I did not believe in myself. When I am gone if they opened me up there would be one name written large across my heart and that name would be Gayle. God knows, I have-not deserved her and I have dragged her all over--and yet she has stood by always. And so there came to us two children--red heads. A girl first and then a boy. And there is no way I can even begin to say how much I love them and how proud I am of them. How different life would have been without them and my two granddaughters.

Add to these all these the six churches I served. They were as different as any churches could be. And after my retirement I served eight other churches as preacher and interim pastor. And like my family and friends they stretched me and taught me about faith and hope and love. They opened up their arms and took me and my family in. And even if they did not listen some Sundays they accepted me and cheered me on. 
.

When Raymond Carver, very sick with cancer, he wrote this poem about: "Gravy." He wrote: "No other word will do. For that's what it was. Gravy."

I think Mr. Carver was right. Despite all the ups and downs and the old black dog of depression that has dogged so many of my days--it really has been gravy. And so at 84 I may be not be able to blow out all my candles--well, maybe I can. But this I know I lift up my heart with thanks. I am a lucky man.    

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

The Flag Is Still There...

America these days Is trying to decide what it means to be a patriot and an American. The country is eerily divided over who we are and what we are be. I don't have to name our divisions--we all know them.The pundits make sure that we know what's going on. Maybe what is not what is going on. 

The first picture here I took last week in Oregon. I almost stopped and knocked on the door behind this sign. For these folk capture the vision of a country for all. Like the Statue of Liberty they call us back to the "we...the people" that we have held up through the years as our promise to ourselves and to the world. But we all know that the struggle to live up to our dreams is an unending  challenge to define what America truly is.

These other pictures moved me as I saw them. Ponder their meanings as we really do try to ponder what truly makes America great.

These other pictures by artists have laid out how they feel about who and where we are. 

photo by Steve Baker / flickr

Bill Coffin once said "How do you love America? Don't say 'My country, right or wrong.' That's like saying,. 'My grandmother drunk or sober.' it doesn't get you anywhere. Don't just salute the flag, and don't burn it either. Wash it. Make it clean."

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Impeachment Confusion

photo by S Kaya / flickr

I am trying my best to stay out of partisan political matters. It isn't easy these days. I have good friends that are Republicans and friends that are Democrats. This bashing, demeaning, name-calling and very unchristian behavior is not confined to any one group. This choosing-sides makes me hesitate to deal with this issue. Yet I am an American and I love this country immensely. But first I am supposed to be a Christian. God knows I stumble and fall time after time--but I am trying to follow the Lord Jesus. It is hard in any age.

The piousity which engulfs both parties is sickening. Nobody--no body is without sin. Many on both sides of this issue wave their political flag and do whatever their party says. Greedy for power they have closed their eyes to the truth. People are jumping up and down hoping we will crucify Trump on this Ukraine matter. Others are saying whatever the President does is fine--after all he is the President.

Nicholas Kristof whom I have quoted several times--is a wise man. He is not perfect. But his piece on this impeachment issue is worth reading. 

Pray for our President, pray for this Impeachment Committee. Pray for our country. Pray for the whole world that God loves.

A wise old Middle Eastern mystic said this about himself. "I was a revolutionary when I was young, and all my prayer to God was: 'Lord, give me the energy to change the world.' As approached middle age and realized that my life was half gone without my changing a single soul, I changed my prayer to: 'Lord, give me the grace to change all those who come into contact with me. Just my family and friends, and I shall be satisfied.'  Now that I am an old man and my days are numbered, I have begun to see how foolish I have been. My one prayer now is: 'Lord, give me the grace to change myself.' If I had prayed this right from the start, I would not have wasted my life. Let us pray.

It wouldn't hurt to end this piece with the Franciscan Benedition:

"May God bless you with discomfort...

At easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, 

So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger...

At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,

So that you may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless you with tears...

To shed for those who suffer pain, 

rejection and starvation, and war.

So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them

And to turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with just enough foolishness...

To believe that you can make a difference in this world, 

So that you can do what others claim cannot be done."

I don't have anything else to say on this matter before us. Except--God be with you and with us all.

--Roger Lovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com